Vaeloria stood in the doorway and let herself look.

  Not like a healer.

  Not like a mother.

  Like a queen assessing damage.

  The room was one of her better chambers—polished beams, soft light, quiet that cost money. The kind of quiet she used to remind herself she still owned the castle even when the War Office acted like it owned the empire.

  Derpy’s eyes opened.

  The moment he focused, his gaze went searching—fast, hungry, panicked.

  Not for the silk.

  Not for the guards.

  For something small.

  A piece of cloth.

  Vaeloria watched him push upright and immediately pat his chest, his shoulders, the place where fabric should’ve been.

  Nothing.

  His throat tightened.

  So that’s the tether, Vaeloria thought.

  A hoodie. A scrap of his old world. Something he could hold onto when everything else was taken.

  She felt a thin, unpleasant pinch of satisfaction at how quickly she’d found the lever.

  And then—just as quickly—she felt the second pinch.

  Disgust.

  Because levers were what Thornevald used.

  “Friend,” Mk.1 said.

  Mk.1 stood near the bed, head tilted, voice careful—like she was testing whether the word would break him.

  “I’m… happy to see you.”

  Vaeloria’s eyes narrowed.

  Mk.1 was not built for happiness.

  Mk.1 was built for compliance.

  A cold draft slipped through the room.

  Mk.1 flinched.

  Then she stepped back, eyes dropping, posture folding in on itself—like she’d been reminded she wasn’t supposed to be seen.

  Defect, Vaeloria thought.

  Not in her joints.

  In her choices.

  Vaeloria entered.

  Not fast.

  Not gentle.

  Controlled.

  She bowed, small and precise, because even apologies could be weapons if you held them correctly.

  “My name is Vaeloria,” she said. “Queen of the Elven Empire.”

  She watched Derpy blink at the title like it didn’t mean anything.

  That was either innocence…

  Or the kind of exhaustion that made power feel unreal.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve been put through,” Vaeloria said. “You have my sincere apology.”

  The words tasted strange.

  Not because she didn’t mean them.

  Because she did.

  And meaning them made her feel exposed.

  Derpy’s attention flicked—like he was listening to people who weren’t in the room.

  Vaeloria felt it the way she felt storms coming.

  Two presences pressed close behind his eyes.

  Be careful, one warned.

  Choose your words, the other added. Wrong answer, and she ends you.

  Vaeloria kept her face still.

  Calamity books, she realized.

  Not just one.

  Two.

  Derpy swallowed.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “I… won’t hide anything.”

  He shifted—and his stomach dropped.

  His pants were gone.

  Replaced.

  Elven garments, tailored to his body like they’d measured him while he slept.

  His wings were out.

  His tail was out.

  The fabric had been cut and shaped around them on purpose.

  Vaeloria watched his breathing speed up.

  Not because he was naked.

  Because he was handled.

  Because someone had touched him while he couldn’t stop it.

  Because the hoodie was gone.

  His vision narrowed.

  Then his body betrayed him.

  The wings dissolved.

  Bones shifted.

  Wolf ears formed—one red, one blue.

  A wolf tail followed, red and blue braided together like spilled paint that refused to separate.

  Vaeloria felt a flicker of awe.

  Not admiration.

  Assessment.

  Unstable form. Trauma-triggered. Reactive.

  Derpy grabbed the blankets and pulled them up like a shield.

  He tried to retreat inward.

  And there—Vaeloria saw it in the way his pupils tightened—was the shadow of himself.

  Too close.

  Too awake.

  This time you’re losing it, the shadow whispered.

  Are you a wolf? A dragon? A mouse? A rabbit?

  Your shape keeps changing.

  Derpy’s hands shook.

  If you keep spiraling, it gets worse, the steadier voice warned.

  You don’t want to show them what “full monster” looks like, the other presence tightened.

  Vaeloria stepped closer.

  She could have ordered him still.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She could have called the dolls.

  She could have done what Thornevald would do.

  Instead she reached for the simplest thing.

  A hand to his shoulder.

  Soft.

  Warm.

  A careful hug.

  “It’s okay,” Vaeloria murmured. “Breathe.”

  She felt his lungs stutter.

  Then catch.

  His body leaned into her like it hated needing anyone.

  He peeked out.

  Vaeloria’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Oh,” she said, letting the surprise show just enough to feel human. “You’re… a wolf now.”

  Her hand moved—slow, deliberate—through his ears.

  Then down to his tail.

  The tail flicked once.

  Twice.

  The contact grounded him.

  Vaeloria hated how effective it was.

  Because it meant he could be soothed.

  And anything that could be soothed could be trained.

  “I can see you’re suffering,” Vaeloria said, pulling him closer against her chest like she’d decided he was fragile. “What’s wrong?”

  Derpy’s voice came out rough.

  “I get panic attacks,” he said. “When I was kidnapped. Your dolls grabbed me and left my pets behind.”

  He swallowed.

  “They’re protecting a mouse girl I was traveling with.”

  Vaeloria felt something twist under her ribs.

  Not pity.

  Recognition.

  Because the War Office always took something and called it necessary.

  She hugged him again.

  And made her choice.

  Cold slid into place at his throat.

  A collar.

  Blue.

  A tag stamped into it in clean, unforgiving letters:

  VAELORIA’S PET.

  Derpy froze.

  Vaeloria watched his eyes go wide.

  Watched the betrayal land.

  And forced herself not to flinch.

  Because if she hesitated, Thornevald would take him.

  And if Thornevald took him, there would be no apology left in the world that mattered.

  “Once again,” Vaeloria said, voice smooth, “I’m sorry for how my empire treated you.”

  She turned.

  “Walk with me.”

  Derpy’s mouth opened.

  No sound came.

  “And your clothing,” Vaeloria added, as if the hoodie was a stain she’d scrubbed away. “It’s being fixed. I can’t have you walking my castle filthy.”

  She took his hand.

  Not an invitation.

  A pull.

  Behind them, Mk.1 hovered like a guilty secret.

  Vaeloria didn’t look back.

  If she looked back, she might admit she’d already started caring about the defect.

  The throne room smelled like polished stone and expensive food.

  Vaeloria hated that smell.

  It was the scent of pretending.

  A long table.

  A king.

  Three daughters.

  Breakfast served like nothing in the world could threaten them.

  Thornevald ate like a man who had never once worried about consequence.

  Vaeloria walked Derpy in like she owned the air.

  Because she did.

  And because she needed everyone to remember it.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing.

  Derpy’s body moved.

  The blue collar tightened—not choking, not painful.

  Worse.

  It forced.

  He dropped into the seat with a sharp, humiliating obedience.

  Vaeloria watched his hands curl into fists.

  Good.

  Anger meant he was still himself.

  “Excuse me,” Derpy managed, voice thin. “Miss Vaeloria—what did you do?”

  Vaeloria turned her head.

  She let sweetness touch her expression.

  Not kindness.

  Control dressed as kindness.

  “You’re under my protection,” she said. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

  A pause.

  “If you refuse…”

  She let the threat hang without saying it.

  Then she raised her staff.

  “Thornevald.”

  The air tightened.

  Pink ice formed along the floor in delicate petals.

  Vaeloria felt the room react.

  Lieam stiffened.

  The other daughters stiffened.

  The guards stiffened.

  Thornevald didn’t.

  He kept eating.

  Vaeloria sent a shard of pink ice toward him.

  It disintegrated a breath before impact.

  Thornevald finished chewing.

  Then, flat as stone:

  “Yes, dear.”

  Vaeloria’s jaw tightened.

  She hated that he could say it like a joke.

  She hated that he could make her look like the unreasonable one.

  “Are you hiding anything from me?” Vaeloria asked.

  Thornevald didn’t look up.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Vaeloria stepped closer.

  “Are you sure?”

  The sweetness drained from her voice.

  The pink ice petals thickened.

  Thornevald finally lifted his eyes.

  Calm.

  Unmoved.

  And then Vaeloria felt the collar pulse.

  A heartbeat.

  A command.

  Derpy’s body rose.

  Not like a person.

  Like a weapon being drawn.

  Vaeloria’s stomach dropped.

  No.

  The wolf ears vanished.

  Bones cracked and shifted.

  Dragon wings tore back into existence.

  The braided tail dissolved, replaced by a heavier dragon tail that thumped once against the floor.

  Heat bloomed.

  Two calamity presences ignited behind his eyes.

  Gloves formed over Derpy’s hands.

  One glove turned black.

  The other turned white—stained through with green, like rot under snow.

  Don’t interfere, the steadier presence warned.

  Royals don’t forgive, the darker one added.

  Vaeloria felt cold slide down her spine.

  Because it wasn’t just power.

  It was obedience.

  Her collar.

  Her command.

  Her mistake.

  Derpy’s teeth clenched.

  “My body’s moving,” he whispered. “I don’t have control.”

  He stepped beside Vaeloria.

  His eyes burned red.

  Predator-bright.

  Mk.3 and Mk.4 moved fast, blocking his path.

  Derpy’s throat opened.

  A howl tore out.

  Black ice spikes erupted toward the king.

  Mk.2 launched forward and smashed the incoming attack with a single punch.

  Then she drove in—kill intent clean and direct.

  Derpy caught her fist.

  Held.

  Then released.

  Mk.2’s arm shattered from shoulder to wrist with a sound like snapped branches.

  Vaeloria felt the room recoil.

  Lieam’s breath caught.

  The daughters went pale.

  Thornevald kept his eyes steady.

  Of course he did.

  He’d built this world.

  “Stop,” Vaeloria said.

  She put steel into the word.

  Derpy’s eyes cleared.

  He blinked.

  Saw Mk.2’s missing arm.

  Saw the dolls pinning him down.

  And then Vaeloria saw it.

  Something else pressing up behind his face.

  A second set of intent.

  No, the shadow said.

  Not this time.

  We’re switching.

  Black aura poured off Derpy’s skin.

  The collar creaked.

  Then tore.

  The blue band ripped away like a lie.

  Vaeloria’s pulse spiked.

  Relief.

  And fear.

  Because if her collar couldn’t hold him, nothing she owned could.

  Derpy rose.

  The Mk sisters hit him—three bodies, practiced restraint.

  He threw them off like they weighed nothing.

  Mk.1 stepped forward, voice small.

  “Friend. No fight. Stop.”

  The thing wearing Derpy’s body didn’t stop.

  It walked toward the king.

  Magic circles layered into the air with each step.

  Fire.

  Ice.

  Wind.

  Water.

  A storm of spells rose like a crown of violence.

  Mk.2 slammed into him again.

  The impact staggered him.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He was already there.

  Face to face with Thornevald.

  The king’s guards had blades at his throat.

  Thornevald didn’t flinch.

  Vaeloria watched her husband’s calm and felt something ugly bloom.

  Not jealousy.

  Not rage.

  A certainty.

  He was enjoying this.

  The shadow’s voice came out of Derpy’s mouth—low, controlled, lethal.

  “I have a question for you.”

  Thornevald’s eyes stayed flat.

  The shadow leaned in.

  “This answer decides whether your empire stands… or falls.”

  Ice crept up the king’s chair legs like a slow promise.

  Vaeloria’s fingers tightened on her staff.

  She wanted to interrupt.

  She didn’t.

  Because she needed to hear what he would admit.

  Then the shadow spoke—crisp as a command code.

  ELVEN WAR OFFICE — ARCANE MUNITIONS COMMAND.DOLL-SOLDIER PROGRAM: STITCHBORNE DIVISION.SPECIMEN: RVN.

  Vaeloria felt the room change.

  The dolls froze.

  Mk.1, Mk.2, Mk.3, Mk.4—every weapon lowered by a fraction.

  Recognition.

  Confirmation.

  Vaeloria’s stomach turned.

  So it’s real.

  Not rumors.

  Not paranoia.

  A program with a name.

  A division.

  A specimen label.

  Thornevald finally reacted.

  Not fear.

  Acceptance.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I do.”

  Vaeloria wanted to strike him.

  Not with ice.

  With truth.

  Derpy’s shadow voice sharpened.

  “Did you discard her?”

  Thornevald’s tone stayed casual.

  “She was the first of the first dolls,” he said. “When I came to see the results, the two in charge told me they had to start over.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Why do you ask, boy?”

  The shadow’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have a party member,” it said. “A friend.”

  A beat.

  “I saw her memories through an artifact.”

  Vaeloria felt her grip tighten.

  Artifact.

  Of course.

  Everything dangerous in this empire eventually became an artifact.

  Thornevald’s gaze didn’t move.

  “And if I refuse to answer?” he asked.

  Derpy moved like lightning.

  Lieam was yanked from her seat.

  Encased in ice up to her neck.

  Only her head visible.

  “Dad—” Lieam choked.

  Vaeloria’s heart lurched.

  Not because she feared for Lieam.

  Because she saw how easily the shadow chose leverage.

  Because she saw how quickly power became cruelty.

  “Okay,” Thornevald said, voice unchanged. “Okay.”

  The shadow leaned closer.

  “I expect truth,” it said. “If your answer breaks, I come back.”

  The black aura trembled.

  Then the shadow slipped away.

  Derpy blinked, suddenly himself again.

  Confused.

  Unaware.

  “What…?” he whispered.

  Vaeloria watched him look around like he’d woken from a nightmare he couldn’t remember.

  And she felt something sharp.

  Because she knew that feeling.

  The part where you realize you did something terrible and you don’t even know what it was.

  Thornevald sighed.

  “You want answers on the War Office,” he said. “Arcane Munitions Command. Stitchborne Division. Specimen RVN.”

  He spread his hands.

  “I can tell you what I know. Beyond that, I don’t know where the doll went.”

  Then his gaze sharpened.

  “But you’re too valuable to let go.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  Mk.1, Mk.3, and Mk.4 raised their weapons to Derpy’s neck.

  “Serve the queen’s empire,” Thornevald said, “and we will talk.”

  Vaeloria tasted bile.

  He’s making it sound like a bargain.

  Derpy’s throat burned.

  He swallowed.

  “I have a favor,” he said, voice raw. “If my friends ever arrive… let them in.”

  Vaeloria heard the plea under the words.

  Not for himself.

  For the ones he’d lost.

  Something cold slid around his neck again.

  A collar.

  Black.

  It bit into his skin with a burning sting.

  Vaeloria’s fingers twitched.

  She didn’t cast.

  She didn’t move.

  Because Thornevald had done it in front of everyone.

  A statement.

  A claim.

  “Come here,” Vaeloria said.

  Derpy tried.

  His body refused.

  He used the last of his strength to stagger forward—past Vaeloria—toward the king.

  Then he collapsed at Thornevald’s feet.

  Mk.1 rushed to him.

  “No hurt friend,” she pleaded.

  Vaeloria watched the defect kneel like a child begging a god.

  And she felt her jaw tighten.

  He broke her too, Vaeloria thought.

  Or maybe she had been broken long before and Derpy simply gave the crack a name.

  Thornevald looked at Vaeloria.

  “You went into my facility,” he said, “took a calamity bearer, and brought him up here.”

  Vaeloria’s voice turned possessive.

  “He’s under my protection,” she said. “You will not take my toy away.”

  The lie slid out smooth.

  Toy.

  Protection.

  Ownership.

  All the same language.

  Thornevald scoffed.

  “How long do you think he’ll follow your commands with those silly beast collars?”

  He gestured at Derpy.

  “He wore one for minutes before he went wild.”

  Vaeloria’s throat tightened.

  Because he was right.

  And because she hated that he was right.

  Thornevald’s gaze cut to the dolls.

  “I have a new order,” he said.

  Mk.1, Mk.2, Mk.3, Mk.4 straightened.

  “All four of you will ensure he does not rampage.”

  Then he looked at Mk.2’s shattered arm.

  “And you,” he said. “Head to recovery. My finest mages will put you together again.”

  Mk.2 didn’t move.

  “No,” she said.

  The room stilled.

  Mk.2 never spoke unless spoken to.

  Vaeloria felt her skin prickle.

  Not fear.

  Awe.

  A program cracking.

  A weapon choosing.

  Mk.2 stared at Derpy.

  “He fixed Mk.1’s seams,” Mk.2 said, voice flat but stubborn. “I want him to fix me.”

  Thornevald’s eyes narrowed.

  Then he exhaled.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll have the mages bring spare parts.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “And that monster of a boy will try.”

  A pause.

  “But you will not complain if you come out wrong.”

  Thornevald’s voice turned sharp.

  “Am I clear?”